


Reflective and Elusive

by heyitsathrowaway



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 10:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10683795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyitsathrowaway/pseuds/heyitsathrowaway
Summary: Materiality is a strange thing. Samot is still getting used to the feel of his lips moving as he speaks, his tongue heavy in his mouth and bumping against his teeth.





	Reflective and Elusive

Materiality is a strange thing. Samot is still getting used to the feel of his lips moving as he speaks, his tongue heavy in his mouth and bumping against his teeth. Physical sensation is the first things that Samot had learned, stumbling on his pale legs and new knees. 

"There's so _much_ ," he tells Samothes, running his hand through the stream they're sitting beside, water running through his fingers. "I didn't realize, before."

Samothes reaches over and wraps his hand around Samot's, lifting it from the water and gripping it tight. "You've hardly seen a quarter of what the world has to offer." 

"You have a point," Samot says. "I'll have to travel more, before we begin classes at the university."

Samothes squeezes his hand. His smiles, Samot has noticed, seem to ease their way onto his face. Not as if they're unexpected, exactly. Like a sunrise: slow, but inexorable and bright. Samot is determined to make a thorough study of them. 

"And how are the preparations going?" 

Samot drapes his arms around Samothes' shoulders. "Quite well," he says, "thanks to you." He leans in close so that their noses brush and they're sharing the same air. Breathing is a mechanism Samot is still getting used to--he understands the theory of it, but sometimes he forgets. Having a body of his own is effortless at times, but the more he thinks about it, the more difficult and unmanageable it can be. 

Dipping his head, Samothes brushes his lips against Samot's. "I only hope I don't regret it," he says, but his tone is light and his eyes are dancing. 

Samot laughs. "You won't," he says, tightening his arms around Samothes' neck. That had been it's own kind of fun--shouting at Samothes about the need for learning, finding new knowledge and _spreading_ it, feeling his throat growing rougher as he talked. But in the end, he hadn't truly wished to do anything against Samothes' wishes, and Samothes, in time, had acquiesced. 

It's for the best. If they were still arguing, they wouldn't have time to sit alongside the river like this, as if they're wrapped up in an entire world all their own.

Samothes, too, is a fascinating subject of study: the roughness of his skin, the wrinkles beside his eyes when he smiles, the press of his lips to Samot's forehead, soft and warm. Samot is often cold, but never in Samothes' presence--Samothes generates his own kind of heat, both within Samot as well as outside of him. Samothes pulls him closer and kisses him, an arm across his shoulders and one pressed to his back. It keeps Samot tethered: he feels like he might float away otherwise, with Samothes' tongue brushing against his lips and his hands flexing at Samot's back, under his robe.

Samot breaks away after a few moments, and he wriggles out of Samothes' grip to lie down. The grass is softer than it had perhaps been a moment ago. Grinning up at Samothes, Samot stretches back against it, luxuriating. He shrugs out of his robe, the sun brushing across his face and belly like a caress. 

Samothes runs a hand up Samot's stomach, taking the unspoken invitation. Samot spreads his fingers out, grass tickling his palms. Samothes' hands are warm, and his callouses catch on Samot's skin. "No," Samothes says. Samot barely remembers what they were talking about. He feels sleepy and comfortable in a bone-deep way. "I could never regret you."

Laughing, Samot tips his head back. He doesn't know what to say. In his old life, he could steal words, devour them whole. It's luxurious, now, to be able to come up with his own, but also terrifying. There's so much of himself inside his skin. There's no way that he can explain it all. "I'm glad I'm here." 

Samothes leans down to mouth at Samot's neck. Samot is still getting used to the way Samothes touches him, reverent and all-consuming. It reminds Samot of his first few days of material being. Sitting around campfires, sparks underneath his skin, new and unsure and ecstatic to exist.

Samot closes his eyes as Samothes sucks bruises onto his skin, moving from his neck to his collarbone. He feels Samothes chuckle against his shoulder before he sits back, his hands trailing across Samot's stomach, watching Samot as he shivers.

"Having fun?" Samot asks, eyebrow raised. 

Samothes grins. "A bit," he says. He presses a kiss just above Samot's navel. A laugh bubbles up from Samot's throat, unbidden. 

"Ticklish?"

Samot huffs. "Apparently," he says. 

He and Samothes haven't quite been able to spend time together like this. Too busy arguing. But the university is under construction, and the sun is shining brightly, and the grass is cool against Samot's back. He feels light in Samothes' presence, like he weighs nothing at all. 

Then Samothes bites at his hipbone, and Samot gasps. Samothes eases off the loose pants Samot is wearing, and Samot isn't sure where they end up. Hopefully not in the water. Regardless, he's having a hard time caring. 

Samothes' beard scrapes against the inside of Samot's thigh, and Samot lets out a high pitched noise, hands digging into the grass. He can feel dirt getting under his fingernails, his heart pounding in his chest, Samothes' lips against him, smiling. Samothes mouths at his thigh, biting down. There's going to be a mark there, Samot thinks, a little dizzily. Not permanent, but lasting, a clear reminder. A marker of reality.

Samot is hot all over, can almost feel the rush of blood pounding beneath his skin. He's breathing hard. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. He thinks he's starting to understand about air, about why it matters.

When Samothes takes Samot into his mouth, it feels like worship, like every word of praise Samothes has ever given him.

Samothes pulls back and presses his mouth against the place where Samot's hip and thigh meet. It feels as though Samot's skin is buzzing everywhere his lips touch. "You do still need to breathe, in this form," Samothes says, amused. 

Samot gasps, reminded, and tucks his face into the crook of his own elbow. He presses his foot insistently against Samothes' side until he puts his mouth back on Samot's cock. 

It's an effort to lift himself up onto his elbows, to look down so that he can watch Samothes' bent head between Samot's spread legs. Worth it, though Samot can hardly focus on it with how good Samothes' mouth feels around him. His hips buck up without him meaning to, and Samothes presses a hand flat across his stomach, keeping him pressed to the ground. He licks a long stripe up the underside of Samot's cock, and Samot can't look at him anymore. 

Samot presses one hand to his mouth and reaches down with the other, blindly, until Samothes' free hand finds it and grips him tightly. That connection is the only thing that keeps Samot anchored and whole. He's never felt more centered in his body, aware of ever movement of his stomach under Samothes' hand, of Samothes' hand clutching his, of Samothes' mouth around him. _Samothes, Samothes, Samothes._ It takes a few moments for him to realize he's speaking aloud.

When he comes, it feels like being shattered; like he's felt so much that his body can no longer contain it.

The feeling passes. Samot reaches down to tug at Samothes' hair, pulling him up so that Samot can kiss his mouth. That's overwhelming too, in its own way. Samot's skin still feels tight. Kissing Samothes is like what Samot imagines drowning must be like.

It's only when Samothes brushes a thumb across his cheek that Samot realizes there are a few tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. 

He's overwhelmed, for a moment, by the affection he feels for Samothes. He thinks it might devour him whole if he lets it. He isn't sure that he would mind. Samot turns his face and kisses Samothes' hand.

"Is it always like this?" he asks. His voice sounds odd. He's never been hoarse before. 

Samothes hums, and strokes Samot's face, pushing some of the hair from his eyes. "Maybe. You're very beautiful," he says, a hint of awe in his voice. 

Samot giggles, and wraps his arms around Samothes' back, hooking a leg over his hip. He shivers at the contact, but he wants to be close. 

Samothes kisses him, cupping the back of Samot's head. They're tangled so closely together that for a disorienting moment Samot isn't sure that they're even two people at all--that it's his heart that feels like it might break free from his chest, his skin that feels like a match about to be struck. 

He rolls them over, sitting astride Samothes' thighs, staring down at him with what he's sure are wild eyes. He can feel Samothes hard against him. Samothes' hands tighten on Samot's hips when he rolls them experimentally, and Samot grins. "You're right. This is fun." Samothes laughs at him, and Samot bites at his chin. "What? It's like I keep telling you: there's always something new to learn."

Samothes is watching him with soft eyes. He sits up, keeping Samot balanced with his hands. His kiss is languid, and Samot can't decide if he wants him to go faster or slower. His skin feels oversensitive, but he can't stop moving. He's hardening again against Samothes' thigh. 

Samothes breaks away to rummage around in his robes, which fell from his shoulders what feels like hours ago now. He pulls out a bottle of oil.

Samot tucks his face into the crook of Samothes' neck, smiling against his throat. "Always so prepared," he says, teasing.

"They do call me Ingenuity Alive." Samothes' grin is apparent in his voice. 

Samot huffs and rolls his eyes, sitting back. "Oh, do they." He sets his hands against Samothes' chest, pressing him back down to the ground. Samothes goes easily. He wrestles the cork from the bottle, oil spilling over his fingers. Samot can feel each muscle in his thigh clench as Samothes presses one inside him. "Oh," he says.

"Good?"

Samot laughs and nods, spreading his fingers and digging in with his nails. Samothes opens him up slowly and carefully, a measured pace that makes Samot wants to bite down on something. 

When he grows too impatient, he leans forward to grab the bottle of oil from where it fell in the grass, gasping as it changes the angle. He pours the remaining oil over his hand and wraps slick fingers around Samothes' length. He does get sidetracked, a little, marveling at the texture of Samothes in his hand. 

Samothes presses his fingers up insistently one more time before pulling back. Samot keeps his eyes closed as he sinks down on Samothes' cock, breathing through it. 

"Too much?" Samothes asks, once Samot is settled. 

Samot hums and bites at Samothes' ear. It is, a little. He's still sensitive and shaky. He's never felt more sure that he's real.

Samot sits back, his hands splayed across Samothes' stomach. He can feel Samothes' breath under his hands, going faster and faster now. He rolls his hips, shallowly at first, focusing on the ache in his thighs, on the hitch in Samothes' breathing, the flutter of his eyelashes as he tips his head back. It's easier to watch him without feeling overwhelmed, now that Samothes isn't looking intently back. Samot shifts, changing the angle just slightly, and surprises himself with a moan. Another thing he's not yet used to: how quickly sensations can overtake him, overriding everything else going on in his head. 

He lets his head hang forward and picks up the pace, Samothes' hands steady on his hips. 

"Samot," Samothes says, and oh, his voice sounds _wrecked_. 

Samot leans forward to kiss him, possessiveness clawing at his throat. Samothes breathes in sharply when Samot bites at his lip, and he pulls against Samot's hips, thrusting up. Samot buries his face in Samothes' neck, mouth open against his pulse. Sparks up his spine. He rakes his fingernails down Samothes' back.

Samothes comes with a groan against Samot's hair, his heart racing underneath Samot's palm. Samot clings to him, even when Samothes rolls them over. He shivers when Samothes pulls out, and makes a noise of protest against his shoulder. 

Samothes has a hand in Samot's hair again. "Little wolf," he says fondly, his hand warm against Samot's scalp. "I want to see you." 

Samot can feel blood rising to his face. Not in embarrassment, but in pride, and desire, the surety that Samothes is his. 

Samothes reaches down to wrap a hand around Samot's length, and it isn't any less overwhelming. When he runs a thumb across the tip, Samot can feel his callouses, the roughness of his hands. 

He turns his face away. If he looks directly at Samothes, sees the heat in his eyes, he thinks he might simply catch fire. 

Samothes twists his wrist, and Samot shakes, his mouth falling open on a moan. He can feel Samothes' eyes on him like a touch, like the lick of a flame. He comes with a cry, knowing that Samothes is watching him.

He loses track of time a little, but that's okay. Time isn't important. Samothes is important, and he's everywhere, surrounding Samot in every way that matters. 

"You never did answer my question," Samot says, when he can speak again. It takes a long time. He feels pleasantly heavy, and Samothes makes an excellent pillow. "Is it always like that?"

He can feel Samothes' laugh in his bones, a comforting rumble. He tangles his hand in Samot's sweaty hair, and runs the other down his back. "My dear," he says, "I suppose we'll just have to find out."

Samot falls asleep like that, cradled by the warmth of Samothes and the sun both.


End file.
